


No Stone Left Unturned

by owlaholic68



Series: Noir!AU [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Noir, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mild Language, Murder Mystery, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-22 19:03:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13173234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlaholic68/pseuds/owlaholic68
Summary: What starts as a simple murder investigation reveals a more sinister plot. But private detective Carla is on the case, and no secret can stay hidden from her for long.





	1. Carla takes a case

“I’m glad you could make it on such short notice, Carla.” 

Carla steps into the dim room and closes the door. She doesn’t bother taking off her jacket, moving to sit in a plush chair and smoothing down her skirt. “You know I’m always ready to take another case, Marcus.”

The small plaque on the desk in front of her reads: POLICE CHIEF MARCUS. The gruff man sitting behind the desk is tall and broad, scars decorating his face from his past career in the military. He offers Carla a drink, which she politely refuses. 

“You’ve always been one of our best private eyes,” he starts, leaning back in his chair. “My precinct could use more gals like you. And I don’t always like putting someone from the outside on a case, but you’ve proven yourself time and again to be both cautious and resourceful.” 

Carla leans her elbow on the arm of the chair. Behind her through the frosted glass window, officers and secretaries bustle back and forth, and the sharp click-click of typewriter keys indicate the harried work that the San Francisco police station always seems embroiled in. 

“You said you had a case for me?” she asks. 

“That I do.” Marcus takes a manilla folder from his desk and hands it to her, the metal from one of Carla’s rings glinting in the light of the desk lamp. “At first, it seemed easy. But something about it doesn’t seem quite right. Maybe it’s nothing, but I’ve always trusted my instinct. And my gut feeling tells me to give you this case, Carla.” 

She flips through the folder. “Two victims, found together,” she muses. “Vikki Goldman and Juan Cruz, two adult film stars who had been going steady for the better part of a year.” 

“No visible wounds, but preliminary report suggests poison. We’re working on getting an autopsy. We’ve tried to keep the media from finding out, so be discreet about this.” 

“Bodies were found on the docks just after one in the morning on Tuesday. No clues found at the scene, but that’s unlikely considering the crime probably was committed elsewhere,” Carla mutters. “Any suspects?” 

Marcus shakes his head and sighs. “None. Neither had any close family members, neither had any enemies, and nobody down at the docks saw anything. I can give you the keys to their houses,” he gives her a small jangling envelope with two addresses scrawled on the front. “Poke around a little. We haven’t had the time to send anyone over. Warrant is included in your case files, if you need it. The autopsy should be done tomorrow, I’ll give you a ring when we have the results.” 

“Thanks.” Carla stands and slips the folder into her purse. “I’ll try my best.”

“Just be careful. Something tells me that this is more dangerous than your usual work,” Marcus advises. “Good luck, Carla.”

* * *

Vikki Goldman’s house is modern and sleek, surrounded by well-manicured shrubs and lawns. Carla stops her car in the driveway and turns off the engine. Two shiny chrome convertibles are parked in front of a garage, one blue and the other bright red. 

Operating under the assumption that someone may be home, Carla knocks on the front door. Nobody answers, so she unlocks the door with the key that Marcus had given her. 

The inside of the house is sparsely decorated and stylish, all white couches and expensive appliances. Through a pair of glass sliding doors in the living room, Carla can see an in-ground pool. She walks through a hallway and enters the main bedroom, careful not to disturb anything. 

There’s a pair of hiking shoes in the closet, unworn. The price tag is still on. Among the elegant gowns and flowing dresses, a few pieces of men’s clothing, dress shirts and slacks, are evidence of Vikki’s relation with the other victim. 

Carla moves on to the study, browsing the titles of books. Volumes of short stories, finance guides, and a few introductory chemistry textbooks, which have creased spines and many dog-eared pages.  _ I never would have taken a celebrity to be so interested in science, but I guess everyone is surprising in their own way _ , Carla thinks. After a quick search of the rest of the house, she turns up nothing of interest. 

Juan Cruz owned a mansion not too far away from Vikki’s, an older-style manor with a wrap-around porch and extensive gardens. 

When Carla parks her car, someone opens the front door and peers out at her. 

“What you doin’ here? This is private property!” a high feminine voice calls out. A short broad-shouldered woman peeks around the doorframe. She has an apron over a plain dress, and her stringy blonde hair is tied back with a kerchief. “Go away ‘less you got an appointment, Mister Cruz ain’t seein’ nobody today!” 

“I’m with the police,” Carla says, stopping a few feet from the door and showing the woman her warrant and detective ID. “You do know that Juan Cruz was killed a few nights, ago, right?” 

The woman slumps. “I sure do. Well, fine, come on in. Name’s Eliza. I’m the housekeeper here, have been for years.” 

Eliza leads her through the house, giving her a brief tour. 

“How long have you known Juan?” Carla asks. 

“Don’t wanna be answerin’ no personal questions,” Eliza snaps. 

Carla raises her eyebrows. “Okay. How long have you been the housekeeper here?” 

“Five years, give or take,” she answers. “Here’s his bedroom. I’ll leave you to gather fingerprints or whatever you detective folk do.” 

Juan Cruz’ room is homely and soft in contrast with Vikki’s more modern home. The bed is unmade, a blanket dangling from the headboard. The closet yields nothing interesting. Several suits, a few more casual shirts, a heavy jacket. Carla frowns and looks again at the jacket, which is unworn.  _ Just like those hiking boots. I’d have thought that they just enjoyed taking trips to the mountains, but neither of these garments have been touched.  _

She rifles through the drawers of the nightstand, finding a pair of glasses and a small book with no title. It’s handwritten, obviously a diary, but it’s all in unreadable code. She slips it into her purse anyways. When she closes the drawer, a whiff of perfume reaches her nose. 

One of the pillows, when she sniffs it, smells faintly of vanilla and floral perfume, something cheap that irritates her nose. Carla takes one last look at the entire room before leaving and going back downstairs. 

“All done, Miss detective?” Eliza says, wiping down the kitchen table. Like the rest of the house, it’s spotless. 

“Yes. One more question, Eliza: What’s going to happen to this estate? Are you going to lose your job?” 

The housekeeper shrugs. “Don’t think so. One of Mister Cruz’s friends gets the place in the will, he’ll probably just keep it as a vacation home or somethin’.” 

“Okay, thanks for answering my questions and showing me around. I’ll be on my way now.” 

Eliza shows her out and holds the door open. As Carla walks through, that same floral buttery scent drifts past her nose. Carla doesn’t think about the significance until she’s driving home, then she just sighs.  _ Maybe that could have been a clue. But I don’t think there’s anything suspicious about a celebrity having an affair with his housekeeper. Hardly something that would get him killed.  _

With only a few unconnected clues at her disposal, Carla has nothing to do but read the case files and wait for the next day. 

* * *

The medical examination room of the police station is cold, lit only by glaring fluorescent lights. Carla sits across the table from the pathologist, a short thin man who keeps tugging at the sleeves of his lab coat. Marcus was upstairs tending to another case, but a red-haired officer leans against the wall. She has significant power in the organization despite not being an official officer, but there were some areas that were restricted unless she was accompanied by an officer. It was annoying at best, a serious inconvenience at worst. 

“Time of death w-was anywhere from - between ten and e-eleven P.M. that same night,” the pathologist explains, shuffling some papers on his desk. A small silver plaque is almost buried under trinkets, coffee mugs, and folders. It reads PATHOLOGIST AND MEDICAL EXAMINER LEONARD H. 

“What about the cause of death?” Carla asks.  _ Is this man always this nervous? He’s not even looking up at me.  _

“Fast-acting poison, most likely i-introduced directly into the a-airstream. Orally, for the w-woman. But the- but the man, there’s e-evidence of an injection.” 

“Could I see the bodies?” Carla asks. 

His shoulders tense, and he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, that’s- that’s restricted. But I h-have pictures.” He gives her an envelope with a shaking hand, his fingers holding the paper too tight and leaving indents. “Any-anything else?” 

She frowns.  _ Everything about this screams that he’s hiding something. But why? What could he even be hiding? It’s something on the body that he doesn’t want me to see. I’m not usually restricted when it comes to seeing evidence. I wonder if I can draw the answer out of him if I ask enough questions.   _ “Any signs of a struggle on their bodies? Any suspicious wounds?”

The pathologist answers negative to both, twisting his fingers in the hem of his coat as he answers her questions. He seems to be dodging around  _ something _ . Carla leans forward in her chair to root through her purse and pull out a small notebook and pencil. As she straightens, she notices Lenny nervously glancing up at the officer behind her. 

_ Hiding something, he’s so obviously hiding something.  _ She narrows her eyes.  _ I just have to figure out why. Maybe he can’t tell me in an official capacity, but I can always try the personal approach.  _

“Thanks for your time,” she says, scribbling some quick words on the paper. She folds it in half and slides it across the desk. “Leonard-”

“Lenny-”

“Lenny, call me if anything new comes up. Anything extra you can find would help me tremendously with the case.” She thanks him one last time, then gathers her coat and leaves the room, the officer holding the door open for her. 

She peeks over her shoulder as the door closes and sees him reading the note, face pale and eyes wide.

* * *

Carla’s apartment is strategically close to downtown San Francisco, in a middle-class neighborhood. The main cable car line runs just one block over if she doesn’t feel like braving the chaotic traffic in her car. 

The building is unassuming and only a few years old, the rent affordable and the landlord friendly. As she unlocks her door and hears loud barking from inside, she smiles and remembers the best part of her apartment: it allows pets. 

A large dog greets her at the door, panting and excitedly wagging his tail. 

“Whoa there, Dogmeat, let me take off my coat first!” Carla had rescued the dog a few years ago while on a case. After busting a drug ring, she had found the puppy shoved in a closet of the house. Marcus had given her clearance to keep the dog, and he had quickly adjusted to his new home. 

She spreads her case notes on the table and makes herself a cup of tea, sipping it as she reads. Out her window, the sun slowly sinks. She makes notes of potential suspects, possible leads, and other confusing pieces of evidence she has yet to put together. 

So far, she finds nothing concrete. But like Marcus, her instinct is telling her something different. Something about the victims, about the manner of death, about the suspicious events surrounding the autopsy, all seem connected. 

And it’s her job to figure out how. 

* * *

The next morning, she receives a phone call. It’s the pathologist, Lenny. 

“Can w-we meet some-somewhere?” he asks, voice quiet and sounding just as worried on the phone as he did in person. Carla quickly checks her watch; it’s just after nine o’clock in the morning. She directs Lenny to meet her in a cafe just off Market Street. 

The cafe is small and intimate, more of a diner than anything else. Carla arrives first, hopping off the cable car, her short heels tapping on the sidewalk. The diner is quiet, only a few patrons reading newspapers or hunched over cups of coffee. Carla nods to the owner, a long-time friend, and orders a cup of tea and a muffin, settling down in a table by the door. 

Lenny arrives a few minutes later. He doesn’t order anything, coming to sit across from her at the table. “I got yo-your note,” he whispers.

The day before, Carla had slipped him her phone number. She had written a short message underneath the numbers:  _ I know you’re hiding something. We can talk in private.  _

“And?” she replies, leaning forward and resting an elbow on the checkered table. Her chair squeaks and Lenny’s shoulders hunch inwards. He looks over his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, but-but I can’t tell y-you anything,” he stutters, hands fisted in his lap. He looks over his shoulder again, and Carla suddenly puts two pieces together. 

“Is someone forcing you to hide something?” she asks, lowering her voice. Lenny mutely nods. “Who’s threatening you, Lenny? Whoever it is, the police can protect you.” 

He shakes his head. 

“I can stay quiet about it too,” Carla promises. “We can get you in witness protection before they even have time to react.” 

He shakes his head again. “Not the cr-criminal.” 

“Whoever’s threatened you didn’t commit the crime?” Carla confirms, confused.  _ Why would they want to cover something up if they weren’t responsible? Unless the victims are somehow connected to them.  _ “Lenny, anything you could give me could help this case. And any leads you give me stay with me. Promise. If anyone asks, I can always make up some other piece of evidence.” 

He takes a deep breath and looks her in the eyes for the first time, his pale green eyes searching hers for confirmation of her honesty. Then he sighs. “A-Alright. Here, C-Carla.” He slides two photos face-down across the table. “I hope- I really hope this h-helps.” 

She puts the photos in her purse without looking at them. She’ll need a clear head to decipher the evidence, and this is neither the time nor the place. She bids Lenny goodbye, offering him a pat on the back. 

In the quiet and calm of her apartment, she looks at the two photos. They are pictures of the corpses, specifically the area over the heart. Two identical tattoos in dark green ink stand out against the victims’ skin:

A cross inside a circle. 

_ What could that possibly mean? And who would threaten Lenny into hiding this?  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had the idea for the fic because I'm starting a literature class about the "roman policier" (french detective/police novels). 
> 
> The two victims are actual Fallout 2 characters, however avoid looking them up if you don't want to guess the next plot twist! I tried to keep the twists independent of the canon material for the most part, but you will get some clues if you know Fallout 2 details. 
> 
> If I mention the San Francisco cable cars every five minutes, just know that I did a lot of research and found it all really interesting. So enjoy your real actual historical knowledge. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this series!


	2. Carla infiltrates a cult

Carla puzzles over the strange tattoos for the next two days. In the meantime, she keeps busy with research, interviewing anyone who could be affiliated with the two victims. In her spare time, she starts trying to decode Juan Cruz’s journal. 

Marcus calls her for an update, but she doesn’t feel comfortable giving him much information over the phone. 

“I can swing by just after lunch,” she says. “I do have some leads.” In reality, she doesn’t have much of anything. A preliminary search of the mysterious tattoos has revealed nothing. But she can tell Marcus that someone was trying to hide evidence, without naming any names or giving any hints that would put Lenny in danger. 

It’s unseasonably warm for April, and the street is too crowded to even attempt driving. So Carla squeezes into a cable car and graciously accepts a seat that a businessman offers her. The ride downtown is short and noisy. An old man next to her is reading a newspaper. The cable car tilts as it goes up a hill and the man drops the newspaper. 

“Oh here, sir,” Carla says, picking it up for him. As she does, an advertisement on the back page catches her eye: 

TIRED OF YOUR MORTAL DRUDGERY? 

Underneath those words is the mysterious symbol that has been puzzling her to no end. “Excuse me, sir, but can I take this page?” She asks the old man, who shrugs and lets her tear out the advertisement. The rest of the small advertisement talks about wanting to shed one’s earthly constraints and attain true happiness, but what really interests her is the phone number. 

CALL TODAY TO JOIN THE HUBOLOGISTS.

She shoves the paper in her purse and hops off the car in front of the police station. Finally, she has a concrete lead to show Marcus. 

* * *

“You’re saying that this mysterious cult is somehow connected to the victims, and that they were trying to cover that fact up?” Marcus confirms. 

Carla nods, the evidence she’s gathered laid out in front of her. “Yes. Vikki and Juan were most likely members of this cult. There’s probably more written in Juan’s journal, but I haven’t had the chance to decode it yet.” 

Marcus flips through the journal. “We just hired a new codebreaker, he can take a look at it.” He rings a bell on his desk and a runner comes to the door. “Give this journal to Goris. Have him see what he can do.” 

“How long would that take?” Carla asks. 

“Hopefully we can get part of it within the week,” he says. “But it could take even longer if the code is tough. What’s your next step?” 

She looks back over her notes, picking up the newspaper advertisement. “I could try infiltrating them. Show up, see what all the fuss is about.” 

“Well, be careful as always,” Marcus warns. “Though these ‘Hubologists’ haven’t done anything wrong, I remember hearing something about them possibly being connected to a murder a few years ago. Watch your back.” 

“And you watch yours. I’d better get going.” 

* * *

Carla parks her car in front of an unassuming building. It has no label or sign denoting its function. Maybe it was a warehouse once, or a restaurant, but now it only serves one purpose: the Hubologist headquarters. 

After calling the number in the advertisement and stating her interest in the cult, she had been directed to this address. She steps out of the car and smooths her old tweed suit. She adjusts the tacky hat on her head and starts walking towards the door. 

Her outfit had been specifically chosen to fit her persona: poor, but not  _ too  _ poor, rich enough to afford a car but not stable enough for her to be a homemaker. 

She knocks on the door and clutches her handbag. “Excuse me, I was told to come here? I saw the ad in the paper.” Someone in dark robes opens the door and waves her in. The door shuts with a click behind her and her heart starts to beat faster. 

The room is dim, lit only by candles. The carpet and heavy curtains seem to muffle all sound except for her breathing, which seems to echo in her ears.

“Greetings, child,” someone in a dark cowled cloak approaches and takes her arm, guiding her into a small sitting room. “What business do you have here?” 

Carla takes in the sparse furnishings in the low light. “I saw your ad, and something in it just spoke to me.” She twirls a ring on her ring finger, a cheap prop she had bought for this purpose. “I’m so sad all of the time, and my husband doesn’t seem to care!” She pitches her voice up into the ‘hysteric’ range. “I work so hard all day as an operator and I come home tired, and he doesn’t seem to care that I’m unhappy!”

“Oh, I see the impurity in your soul, my dear,” the man says, patting her on the arm. “I think we may be able to help you reach your true state of consciousness. See, we have ways of getting rid of all of the nasty little neurodynes that plague your body with unhappiness.” 

“Really?” Carla blinks rapidly and wipes away a fake tear. “You could do that?” 

“Of course we can. We have a process, it’s not very scary, don’t worry. If you do this alignment, you can become what we call AHS-1 and join our order. I am currently an AHS-7. Now, if you agree, it’ll only be thirty dollars.” 

Carla bites her lip.  _ That’s a lot of money just for some cult crap.  _ “Oh, I might be able to get that money from my husband. I’ll tell him I’m buying a new dress or something.” She fake-giggles. “Thank you so much, I can’t even imagine how much happier I’m going to be!”

“I’m glad you see how worthwhile the alignment is,” the AHS-7 says. 

“Of course,” Carla pastes on a fake smile. “This process of yours is truly amazing!” 

* * *

“This process of theirs is utter bullshit,” Carla says. “Pardon my language, but it’s obviously just a scam for money.” 

Marcus seems thoughtful. “Glad that’s one mystery that’s been cleared. What was your general impression of them? Do you think they were involved in the murder?” 

She sighs. “No. Nothing about them seemed to give me the impression that they’re no more than harmless idiots.”  _ Except for the fact that they threatened Lenny to stay quiet.  _ “I still think we should keep an eye on them, but they’re not on the suspect list right now. If anything, they want to stay on the down low. Murdering one of their own and leaving the bodies to be found by the police doesn’t seem like their style. They could easily kill one of their own members with nobody noticing, they don’t need to be so messy.”

He nods. “That sounds right. I trust your judgement, Carla. But then who do you think is responsible?” 

“I have no idea,” Carla admits. “But I still feel like we’re onto something. I just don’t know-”

They’re interrupted by a runner who knocks on the door before opening it. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have a telegram for Miss Carla.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goris and Lenny will actually show up more in later chapters, but for now I want all of the focus to be on Carla. 
> 
> There was a big problem in the 1950's with housewives becoming super depressed for a host of different reasons and seeking drugs and other treatments for their "hysteria" (really an undiagnosed form of PTSD). 
> 
> EDIT: $30 is about $300 today.
> 
> Cliffhanger! What message could Carla have possibly received?


	3. Carla takes another case

“The telegram is from Reno,” Carla says. She reads:

MURDER IN RENO PLEASE INVESTIGATE WILL PAY STOP REPORT TO RETURN ADDRESS REPLY REQUIRED

“Reno? A lot of murders happen there, and few demand investigation,” Marcus remarks. “Are you going to take it?”

“Honestly, I don’t think I’m going to get anywhere on this case until the journal code gets cracked,” Carla admits. “And this feels like the right direction. I just have a feeling about it.” She scrawls out a positive reply and gives it to a runner to telephone in.

YES LEAVE TONIGHT ARRIVE TOMORROW

“Be careful,” Marcus says.

“You always say that,” Carla teases. “You’re such a worrywart.”

“I just have a bad feeling about all of this,” Marcus replies, serious as she’s ever seen him. “Even the most innocent of cases can have a dark side, Carla. Just stay vigilant.”

* * *

Carla has always loved driving. She relishes the feel of the wind combing through her hair, lives for the empty highway at night, when nobody else is around and she’s alone in the desert.

It’s like that now. She’s two hours northeast of San Francisco, just past the bright lights of Sacramento. Instead of trying to find an overpriced hotel downtown, she had decided to bypass the city. One of these small towns was bound to have a cheap motel where she could stay for the night.

Dogmeat sits in the passenger seat, curled up and asleep. In a dangerous and skeevy city like Reno, Carla wanted to have some backup. And though Dogmeat was gentle, he was large and intimidating.

She sees a few lights and pulls into a brightly colored motel with a lit VACANCY sign. Under it is a smaller sign that says PETS WELCOME.

The small lobby is empty, but there’s a bell on the counter. Carla rings it and waits, Dogmeat sitting patiently at her feet, eyes still droopy and tired.

A minute later, a sleepy-looking woman opens the back door and walks to the counter. She’s dressed in nothing but a silky nightgown with a bedrobe thrown over and slipping down one shoulder. Carla’s eyebrows raise involuntarily at her exposed tan skin, and she can’t help but blush when the woman leans over the counter, showing off her curvaceous body.

“Why hello there, stranger. I’m Miria. What can I do for you this fine night?”

Carla tears her eyes away from the woman under the pretense of patting Dogmeat. “I just need a room for the night.”

Miria grins and snags a key from the rack behind her. “Sure thing. It’ll just be seven dollars.” Carla gives her the money and follows the woman outside towards the room.

“So do you own this place?” Carla asks. Dogmeat trots along at her feet.

She laughs, a full-bellied action that shakes her bosom. “Goodness no. My father owns this place, my brother and I just help him run it. Oh, here’s your room.” She unlocks the door and gives Carla the key. “If you need anything else, just come to the-”

They’re interrupted by the sound of helicopter blades, a roar that shakes the ground beneath them. Carla looks up and sees a large helicopter- looking vaguely military but with no identifying marks- fly directly overhead, heading west.

Carla waits until it’s quiet to ask Miria about the helicopter.

“Not military as far as we know,” she answers with a shrug. “One or two fly overhead every couple of days. We don’t even wake up anymore, though some of the guests are disturbed by the noise.”

One of the motel lights flickers. Carla thanks Miria and fetches her luggage from her car. She hesitates in the doorframe of the silent motel room and looks up. The sky above is cloudless, the stars bright and clustered close together.

Far away from the blinding city lights and out of earshot of the constant city bustle, the motel feels lonely and steeped in solitude. No civilization can be seen for miles, no police stations, no murders. Though if somebody _was_ murdered, would anyone even notice?

Carla breaks that chain of thought and slips into the cozy motel room, locking it behind her.

“Well, Dogmeat, I guess I’d better get some sleep.” She sets her suitcase next to an armchair. “I’ve got a long day ahead of me tomorrow.”

* * *

The address given to Carla was on the east side of Reno. Carla passes by casino after casino, large signs offering riches and wealth. Hotels, restaurants, and less savory establishments are tucked in between shopping centers and laundromats.Though the city seems busy, she gets a sense that the real fun is to be had after sunset. Good thing she packed her cocktail dress.

She pulls up to a sprawling mansion and is stopped at the gate. She rolls down her window and speaks to a guard.

“My name is Carla, private detective.” She shows the guard her badge and the telegram she had received. He waves her through the gate. Carla doesn’t like taking personal cases, but sometimes she understands her clients’ concerns for discretion. And as she drives up to the mansion, she comes to the realization that a mob family like this one might not want the police involved.

The house is opulent and spacious. A butler escorts Carla down many hallways filled with curio cabinets and dark wood paneling. She is waved into a small study. A well-dressed older gentleman sits at the mahogany desk. Behind him stands a thin young man with stringy blonde hair.

“Please, take a seat,” the older man says. “Thank you for coming all of this way on such short notice. This is a serious matter for my family. As you may know, my family has a tenuous but significant position in this city. The Wrights may not be the most violent or well-known, but we are the cleanest.” He slams his hand down on the table suddenly, making Carla jump. “Which is why my son Richard’s murder is all the more upsetting. Yesterday, someone forced him to take an overdose of Jet.”

Carla leans back in her chair and makes a note in a small notebook. _Jet. I’ve heard about that. It hasn’t quite infested San Francisco yet, but apparently it’s caused the police in Reno no end of trouble. A drug that is addictive and easy to manufacture, spread around by an underground ring that has yet to be stopped._ She notices the lack of any alcohol in the office, which was unusual: even Marcus kept a small cart with a few glasses in his office.

“Keith can give you more details,” the man says, gesturing to the young man standing behind him. “You will be paid half in advance, the other half when you find the culprit. And I want that vile criminal alive, you hear? You don’t have a reputation for wanton violence, Miss Carla, but the suspects may be hostile. Try your best to keep them alive.”

“Understood. Thank you, sir.” Carla accepts a thick envelope, putting it into her purse without opening it. To count the money in front of him would be rude. She follows Keith out the door and into the hallway.

“You’re lucky you even got that much time with my father,” Keith says. “Orville Wright’s time is precious.”

Carla contemplates her next move. _I don’t know too much about Reno. I need information first and foremost._ “Do you have any preliminary suspects?”

Keith nods. “Many people have ill intent towards our family. Jealousy, greed, and envy could motivate many to make this kind of move against us. The Mordinos manufacture Jet, and they could have used their local dealer, Jagged Jimmy J, to slip Keith the drug. But almost everyone here gets their drugs from Renesco on the west side. If it they didn’t get it straight from the source, they probably got it from him. And if you want a pulse on the town, you go straight to Jules. Maybe he heard something.”

“Thanks,” Carla says. _That’s a lot of different leads. And most of them are connected to other mob families. I’ve got to tread careful here._ “What happened to the body? Are you performing an autopsy?”

“We sent it to a local guy, real underground. Here’s his address,” Keith gives her a business card with some information in it. “He said he’ll get it done by tomorrow. You can pay him a visit. Anything else?”

She jots down a few notes. “Yes. Could I see the victim’s room?”

Keith tenses, a frown creeping onto his face. “I’m afraid not. The family is already upset, that’ll just increase their suffering.”

“It’s necessary, I’m afraid,” Carla asserts, straightening her back. “I will try my best to be non-invasive, but even the smallest clue could help me in this investigation. It’s imperative that I find the murderer as soon as possible.”

He narrows his eyes. “Fine. I’ll show you the way. Just don’t mess with his stuff, he always hated that.” Keith leads her to a small room.

Richard Wright’s room is neat and clean, only a small amount of clutter on the desk. Carla takes notice of the ham radio set amongst rolled up balls of paper. She curiously unrolls one to find a series of numbers, then sets it back down on the desk.

The bed is made. There are traces of small ginger hairs on the quilt. “You have a cat?” Carla absent-mindedly asks, ducking her head to peek under the bed. A few boxes and crates, nothing out of the ordinary.

“Yes,” Keith replies. “She always loved Richard best. Slept in his room every night.”

She investigates the bookshelf next. Several manuals on outdoorsmanship, field guides for camping. A recent series of mystery novels, a few dictionaries and high school textbooks. A set of binoculars, a few Chinese-style trinkets, an expensive watch.

On the bottom shelf is a small pink and white container.

“That’s the Jet he was found with,” Keith explains. Carla takes a clean handkerchief from her pocket and folds it around the container, lifting it and examining it from all angles.

“Do you mind if I take this into a lab?” She asks. “I don’t know much about drugs, but this doesn’t seem like enough for an overdose. Something else could have happened.” Keith lets her take the empty canister. She searches the rest of the room, but there’s little of interest.

As she’s driving back to her hotel where she had left Dogmeat, she reflects on the leads she’s been given. _The Mordinos seem like the best option. I should try to contact that drug dealer and find out if he knows anything. This case is more complicated than I had originally anticipated. Maybe Marcus is right. Maybe this is too dangerous._

_On a case like this, in a city like this, anything could go wrong._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Telegram history and writing style is really interesting! Most telegrams were about 10 words, meaning that the Wrights spent a little extra on theirs, but they can afford it. Also, the word STOP was used, but only when it was necessary to keep clarity. Most of the time, people just abandoned punctuation altogether. 
> 
> Even though Modoc is nowhere near Reno or San Francisco, I wanted to try writing a character I've never written, and a family-owned motel seemed like the best way to include Miria. Also, $7 is about $60 today, a reasonable price at the time for a clean and pet-friendly motel. When Motel 6 started, it got its name from the fact that its rooms were only $6, which was amazingly economical for the time.
> 
> This part is pretty true to the Fo2 quest, but very little of the following will be close to canon, most of it will stray in a very different (and fun) direction. 
> 
> Next chapter: Carla starts gathering evidence.


	4. Carla gathers information

Carla’s first stop is Jules. After asking around in some of the shadier street corners and liquor stores, she finds the man leaning against a wall on the main road. Jules is a dark-skinned man in a worn suit, his sharp eyes watching the passerby.

When Carla catches his eye, he smiles, showing off a glittering gold tooth.

“New in town? Worth your time to talk to me, friend.”

She sidles over, one hand holding Dogmeat’s leash. “Are you Jules? I was told that you know what’s what in this city.”

“That I do, sister. What you want to know?”

Carla nonchalantly shrugs and leans against the wall. Dogmeat settles at her feet. “Tell me about the city.”

“Reno’s the biggest littl’ city in the world, my sweet sister. It’s ruled by four Families, each with their own little slice of the Reno pie: Mordinos, Salvatores, Wrights and the Bishops.”

“What about the law?” She files away the names for future reference.

Jules barks out a laugh. “Law got no power here. Police may scurry around like rats, but they don’t do nothin’. The Families keep order.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Oh, girl, second thing you better learn ‘about Reno: nothin’ comes for free.”

Carla narrows her eyes. _This man is talkative. And I need information, badly._ She slips him five dollars. “Tell me about the Mordinos.”

Jules smiles wide. The money vanishes into one of his pockets. “The Mordinos are a two-headed beast, my friend, an’ each head’s named Jesus Mordino. There's the father, Big Jesus Mordino, and the son, Lil' Jesus, and both are the meanest sons of bitches you ever met. They own the Desperado just down the street.” Jules points to a gaudy casino. “They also got the biggest supply of Jet in Reno, got factories pumpin’ out the stuff like crazy.”

“Speaking of,” Carla takes a chance and gets direct, “do you know anything about Richard Wright’s death?”

Jules takes a second look at her. “You lookin’ into that, sister? I’d best keep that on the down low. Now, the Wright kid? Yeah, I heard about that.” He shrugs. “A damn shame. Kids his age shouldn't be doing drugs. They got so much to live for without being given impure shit.”

“Impure? What do you mean by that?”

He looks nervous, eyes darting about and shoulders _too_ relaxed, too forced. “Just sayin’ that some dealers don’t care what they do to their clients, long as they get paid. Now I ain’t saying nothin’, but I’d check in with Renesco and see how good his shit is. Jagged Jimmy keeps his stock clean, but I wouldn’t be countin’ on old ‘Rocketman’ to do the same.”

Carla takes his with a grain of salt. _They’re competitors. I wouldn’t put it above them to shittalk each other._ “I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll look into the Mordinos. Any way I could get close to Lil’ Jesus?”

“Rumor has it he frequents boxing tournaments and takes home the winner. But ‘less you can box, sister, you’re shit out of luck. Lil’ Jesus is real picky in who he sees.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” With that, Carla turns on her heel and starts walking towards the downtown. At her feet, Dogmeat growls at a tough-looking man who gets a little too close.

_Boxing, huh? I think I can manage that one._

* * *

Carla spends all night at the Desperado, having a drink at the bar and chatting to patrons. She catches a glimpse of someone she thinks might be Lil’ Jesus, but other than that nothing eventful happens.

The next morning, she looks over her notes, pulling out the business card that Keith Wright had given her for the person performing the autopsy. She dresses in sensible but casual clothing, leaving Dogmeat at the hotel.

The address she’s been given is an unassuming home in the suburbs of Reno. Carla parks down the street. When she approaches the door, a curtain rustles in the window of the house. Someone watching her approach and spying on her?

She rings the doorbell. Immediately, the door opens a crack.

“Who are you? What do you want?” A gruff male voice asks. She sees nothing through the door.

“Are you Doctor Henry? My name is Carla. The Wright family sent me.”

The door fully opens. A short pudgy man with thick-lensed glasses peers up at her. “Come inside. I haven’t got all day.” The house is plain and nearly empty, with little signs of consistent habitation. Doctor Henry leads her to the basement, which is well-lit and stocked like a professional medical examination room. A body is laid out under a sheet on a table in the middle of the room.

“Do you have a report of the cause and time of death?” Carla asks. Henry nods and hands her a folder. Inside is a short report along with pictures of various parts of the body.

“There is evidence of significant amounts of alcohol in his system,” Henry says. “It was likely that someone took advantage of his inebriated state to slip something into his drink. Combined with the alcohol, it killed him.”

Carla skims the notes. “So what about the Jet? How is that connected?”

Henry’s hands twitch at his side. He picks up a pen and starts fiddling with it. “Mixed with the alcohol, it was too potent for his system, and caused his lungs and heart to shut down.”

“Thanks for your help,” Carla says, following Henry to the door. “I’ll call you if I have any more questions.” He shuts the door in her face.

The drive home gives her time to think. Driving always does her mind good, the fresh air clearing her thoughts. _I’d better figure out where Richard was the night he got killed. If someone purposely got him smashed and then drugged him, someone may have seen the culprit. I should start with the casinos._

* * *

The Shark Club is the largest casino in Reno. It’s got attractions galore: a mediocre comedian, copious amounts of alcohol, and numerous rigged games to play.

What they apparently _don’t_ have is the benefit of a safe neighborhood.

Carla steps out of the door just before midnight, tired and frustrated with her lack of clues. Nobody had seen Richard Wright for days before his murder: or at least that’s what people were saying. She walks to the curb with the intent of hailing a taxi, stepping away from the crowded casino doors.

Someone roughly grabs her arm and tugs her into the mouth of an alley. She instinctively reacts, years of training honing her reaction time. She stomps hard with her sharp heels then feints with her knee, making as if she’s going to aim for their crotch. Then she strikes with her elbow instead, driving it into her assailant’s throat. Finally, she _does_ knee them in the crotch, sending them to their knees in a matter of seconds.

Carla steps back, heart pounding at the suddenness of the event. Her attacker is curled up on the ground, a black mask covering their face.

“Who are you?” She asks, but gets no reply. The stranger is dressed in plain black clothing with a hood over their hair.

Behind her, a car engine rumbles, and a taxi pulls up to the curb. Carla looks once more at the man, then turns and leaves the scene.

* * *

“This is San Francisco police department, Police Chief Marcus speaking.”

Carla sighs with relief. “Marcus, it’s me, Carla.” She’s sitting in her hotel room with a cup of tea and a bagel. She briefs Marcus on the general aspects of the case, then gets to her reason for calling. “Has any new evidence come out about the Vikki Goldman and Juan Cruz case?”

“No, sorry Carla, we haven’t found anything new. But it sounds like you’re in a rough situation- too many clues, not enough clear direction.”

“I was going to see what I could do to speak to Lil’ Jesus,” Carla says, outlining her plan. “What do you think-”

“Sorry, Carla, hold on a second,” Marcus says, and she can hear him speak to someone else. “Actually, great news. Goris, our new codebreaker, says he’s cracked the journal.”

She’s glad for the small bit of good news. “Excellent. Would you be able to mail it to me?”

The hesitation is evident in the long pause Marcus takes. “I don’t know, Carla. This is sensitive material, I don’t want it falling into the wrong hands. Here, I have an idea,” he speaks some more to the other person, then speaks into the phone again. “How would you feel about getting some backup out there? Not just physical, but intellectual as well. I could send Goris to bring you the journal himself.”

Carla’s not sure. On one hand, the evidence will surely arrive. And she could use the backup, but this ‘Goris’ is a wildcard. She doesn’t know him, she’s never met him. But there _is_ someone at the precinct that she _does_ know. “It’s a deal, but only if you send Lenny too.”

“Who?”

“Lenny, the pathologist. His help was crucial before, he might be useful again.” _And it’ll keep him out of danger from the Hubologists. Not that Reno is the safest either._

Marcus agrees, and promises that the two will arrive in Reno by nightfall. In the meantime, Carla starts implementing her new plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> $5 is about $40 today. Not a bad bribe. Jules in-game will tell you a bunch of quest-related clues if you bribe him, and is actually a very helpful source of information.
> 
> Any guesses on the culprit(s) yet? 
> 
> Next chapter: Carla gets backup


	5. Carla does some required reading

Five years ago, Carla was in a very different position. 

She had not yet had her first case as a private detective, and she was struggling to make ends meet. Her job as a bar waitress offered her little pleasure and a meager salary. 

But everything changed when she broke up a particularly violent bar fight. When one of the combattants, drunk and angry in the way that only a man could be, swung at her instead of his enemy, she effortlessly dodged the punch and hit him right back. What followed felt natural: a few quick strikes from arms hardened by lifting heavy deliveries of bottles, and both fighters were knocked out on the grimy bar floor. 

Her manager had simply shrugged and given her a few cent raise. But someone more influential than she had realized was sitting in that bar that night. As she was closing for the night, he approached her. 

“I saw you fight, girl. You trained, or was that just natural talent?” The man asks. Carla tells him the honest truth:

“Never been in a fight in my life, sir.” 

“How’d you like to be in one?” 

From there, he offers her a substantial sum of money to participate in his underground illegal boxing ring. Training and equipment would be included, and all Carla had to do was fight and win. 

She takes the offer. Anything beats wasting her life away in a hole-in-the-wall bar serving greasy customers and only making a few bucks. 

So Carla learns to fight. And she fights  _ well _ . She wins her first two ‘official’ matches with hardly a scratch, and within the year is the citywide champion. Two years later, she helps a friendly boxer track down his thieving boyfriend, and her private detective business is born. At first, she draws clients who otherwise could not rely on the aid of the police, but in time her clientele expands. 

One year ago, Police Chief Marcus contacts her and offers her a case. Following her instincts as always, she moves to San Francisco and starts working part-time for the police. But her door is always open for any client, and she never truly loses her fighting edge. 

Of course, she never imagined that she’d be back in the ring so soon. And she’d forgotten how disbelieving people can be when they hear that she can fight. Carla visits three boxing gyms in Reno, all which immediately dismiss her. 

She thinks the Jungle Gym will be no different. But when she walks in, she spots a few larger women training together, and her hopes rise. One of the gym’s employees directs her to a very short man standing on the side of the ring. 

“Name’s Stuart Little,” he says. “I know, the name’s ironic. You here to watch, girl, or fight?” 

“Fight.” Carla replies with all of the confidence she can master. She’d dressed in blue jeans today, which had drawn some odd looks from passerby in downtown Reno. A sleeveless blouse shows off her arms and wide shoulders.

Stuart looks her up and down. “You fought before?” 

“Three-year champion in Arroyo,” she says. “Underground ring, but we played clean.”

He nods. “I see. Well, enough chit-chatting. Let’s see what you can do.” 

* * *

At 5 o’clock sharp, there’s a knock on Carla’s hotel room door. When she peeks through the keyhole, she has to look down to see Lenny and someone she doesn’t recognize. She opens the door and ushers them in. 

“It’s real-real good to see you, C-Carla,” Lenny says. “I was so s-surprised when Marcus a-asked me to come h-here!” 

“Still staying safe?” Carla asks, and receives a nod of confirmation. Lenny looks more relaxed away from San Francisco, holding himself with more confidence. Carla pats him on the shoulder before turning to the other man, presumably Goris the codecracker. 

Goris is tall, ducking to fit through the doorframe, with broad shoulders and a long jacket almost reaching his ankles. But his demeanor is anything but threatening. He has a large pair of round spectacles that make his hazel eyes look wide and curious. He shakes Carla’s hand and quietly introduces himself. 

After helping them settle in her hotel room, Carla invites them down to a pizza parlor across the street. She itches to look at the decoded journal that Goris had brought, but she’s not going to accomplish anything on an empty stomach. While they eat, crammed together in a corner booth, Carla briefs them on the Reno case. 

Carla had upgraded her hotel room to one with two king-sized beds. Lenny sits on one bed, skimming Doctor Henry’s medical report. Goris is unpacking and meticulously organizing his luggage. Carla sits on the other bed and starts reading Juan Cruz’s journal. 

The first ten pages are accounts of his daily life and personal exploits. Carla skips over the raunchier bits. About fifteen pages in, Juan mentions the Hubologists. Five pages later, he lets something slip about a “private project” that Vikki is helping him with. This project involves planning a trip to the north, a secret affair where they’ll ditch their car halfway through and hike the rest of the way.  _ That explains the hiking gear. They must’ve been killed before they had the chance to execute their plan, whatever it was.  _ Juan remains deliberately vague, only stating his worries about the danger of the project. 

Two pages from the end, Carla comes across an interesting excerpt:

> Vik came back from her Reno trip yesterday. She seems worried. “Stop writing all of this shit down,” she told me. She doesn’t seem comforted by my code. Then she told me what happened, what she saw. She told me not to write it down. This time, I agreed with her. 
> 
> I didn’t know we’d be getting into something like this. Vik’s worried that someone might have seen her. She says we should postpone our trip and seek help from the Hubologist leaders. I don’t agree. We don’t know if they’re on our side. The [REDACTED] could have eyes and ears everywhere. 
> 
> I just don’t know if we’re going to succeed anymore. Maybe this is too dangerous. But it’s too late to stop now.

Carla frowns and rereads the passage. One of the words is blackened out with a dark marker until it’s unreadable. She flips the page over to see if she can feel the indent of the original word, but that side of the paper has been blacked out too, marker pressed so hard as to flatten any idententations that would have given her a clue.  _ Did Juan black this out, or did someone else? Maybe someone else got to his journal before I did. But how could they have read it without knowing the code? Most likely, Juan did it himself to cover his trail. _

She sighs and Dogmeat hops up onto the bed with her, curling up in her lap.  _ What did Vikki see in Reno? I almost wish that Juan had written it down anyways. From the way she’s worried, maybe it had something to do with one of the Families. Maybe I should include the mobs here as potential suspects. But if I keep investigating, what’s to say that I won’t end up like Vikki and Juan?  _ She shivers and buries her hand in Dogmeat’s fur. 

Juan writes very little after that entry. His last entry is only a sentence long, written the day before their bodies were found on the docks. 

> They found us.

Carla stares at those three words. Outside the window, the city bustles, the lights bright. But not bright enough. 

At that moment, in the hotel room in the middle of the city, with every lamp lit and with two other human beings mere feet from her, Carla feels very much alone. And completely in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of backstory! 
> 
> ??I hate coming up with humansonas for non-human characters. Marcus was easy, but Goris??? is just a big nerd?? literally?
> 
> This chapter turned out more ominous than I intended. Eh, it's noir detective fiction. It's supposed to be a little dark. Literally. Next chapter: Carla kicks ass and takes names.


	6. Carla kicks ass and takes names

Left hook, feint right, dodge back, a good hit from the right, and-

“Knockout!” The announcer booms, and the crowd explodes into a roar as the opponent at Carla’s feet drops like a stone. She shakes out her wrists, bouncing on the balls of her feet and slowing her breathing. 

“Amazing, ‘Dynamite Deborah’!” Stuart Little says, helping Carla down from the ring. “That’s three matches in a row! Those freaks never stood a chance against you!”

Carla breathlessly grins, adrenaline making her dizzy. Stuart helps her stagger back into the locker room. Lenny leaps up from the wooden bench he was waiting on. 

“Went great, Len,” she says, half-collapsing onto the bench. “Hardly a scratch on me.” Stuart presses a large wad of cash into her hands, which she passes to Lenny, who tucks it into her purse. 

“I’ll leave you to cool off, then I think some folks will want to have a word,” Stuart says. “You really made a great impression. You want to do some more work for me, all you have to do is walk in.” He leaves them alone in the quiet locker room. The tile under Carla’s feet is cold and faded white after too many washings, the bright metal finish of the lockers rusted and chipped away. Through the door, she can hear the hubbub of the crowd waiting for her reappearance. 

Lenny quickly checks her over, a first aid kit already on the bench next to Carla. He dabs antiseptic on a few small wounds before checking her ribs. 

“So far, s-so good,” he whispers in the empty locker room. Still drifting down from the adrenaline high, Carla silently nods. 

Their plan had gone off without a hitch. After proving herself in practice the day before, Stuart Little had scheduled her for a few public bouts. Matches that, according to the gym owner, some very influential people would be attending. That meant that the evening would contain both an opportunity and a risk. 

It was important that Carla, Lenny, and Goris not be seen together publicly, at least not all three at once. They had decided that Lenny, being a doctor, should stay behind in the locker room in case her fights went poorly. As soon as she left to speak with the audience members after the match, he would exit through a back door and return to the hotel. 

Goris would not interact with either of them at all. He was an audience member with the job of observing several key individuals and gathering information from anyone and everyone. Once Carla left the gym, Goris would follow a few minutes later, and the two would take a taxi back to the hotel room. 

Lenny declares her almost unharmed, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. This plan had one major risk: the possibility of Carla being seriously injured and being unable to continue the investigation. But her skills, rusty after more than a year of disuse, had come back to her almost instantly. She unpins her long braids and lets them fall around her shoulders. 

With a nod to Carla, Lenny slips out the back door. That leaves her alone to change out of her boxing uniform and into a pair of blue jeans and a nice blouse. She takes a few steadying breaths, her hands beginning to shake from lack of adrenaline. Then she stands and washes her hands, splashing cold water on her face and drying herself with a hand towel. 

Phase One of the plan is complete. Now it’s time for Part Two. 

The main room of the gym erupts into applause and cheers when she leaves the locker room. Carla soaks up the attention, putting her hands on her hips and grinning wide. Then Stuart pulls her aside to introduce her to a dizzyingly large number of people. 

Local celebrities and excited boxing fans rush to shake her hand. Out of the corner of her eye, Carla sees Goris holding a thin wine glass and holding a conversation with a very curvaceous and extraordinarily drunk woman. The woman keeps giggling and touching Goris’ chest, and Carla can see his blush from across the room. 

Her main target is introduced to her about halfway through the evening. Carla is talking to some other boxers when a heavy hand lands on her shoulder. 

“Don’t think we’ve been introduced yet, chica,” a deep voice says. Carla turns to see a tan man in a heavy black leather jacket. “Name’s Lil’ Jesus Mordino.”

“A pleasure,” Carla says, shaking his hand and holding it for slightly longer than necessary, giving Lil’ Jesus a few moments of sultry eye contact. “I’m surprised that the son of the most powerful family in Reno would take an interest in me. After all, I only won a couple of matches.” 

Lil’ Jesus laughs. “Oh, girl, you sell yourself short. I like watchin’ these fights, see? Even if the afterparty is a little...rowdy.” He side-eyes the woman that Goris is talking to. “Too bad Bishop isn’t here to see his daughter actin’ so inappropriate.” 

Carla files away the information for later. She didn’t suspect the Bishops yet, but realistically, any of the other three families could be responsible for Richard Wright’s murder. And when it came to Vikki and Juan, anyone could be the culprit. And speaking of the Wrights…

“Now those Wrights,” Lil’ Jesus nods to Keith Wright, who is standing in a corner with another Wright child, “I don’t like ‘em, but at least they stay clean. Not a drop of alcohol in that house.”

“Really?” Carla blurts. “Last rumor I heard, Richard Wright, poor kid, had one too many and someone took advantage of him.” 

He frowns in disbelief. “That rumor’s probably wrong, just some fucker who wants to slander the family. Their madre’s head of the Temperance Union, she’d whoop any kid of hers who so much as looked at a bottle of wine.” His face contorts into an ugly sneer. “Now, folks are sayin’ we gave him some bad Jet or somethin’, but I ain’t never touched that piss-ass kid.” 

“Doesn’t the Mordino family manufacture Jet, though?” Carla asks, her mind turning.  _ If the Wrights don’t drink, why did Henry find so much alcohol in his system? Maybe I can have Lenny take a second look at the medical report, see if he can find anything else.  _

“Right. Just blame the Mordinos as soon as Jet is involved.” He huffs in frustration. “Most likely Renesco the fuckin’ ‘Rocketman’ did something. Slimy bastard who sells slimy shit. And he don’t like the Wrights none. You stay away from that shit, girl, or it’ll start cramping your fightin’ style.” 

Carla nods emphatically. “Oh no, I don’t touch that stuff. But listen,” she looks at the clock and sees how late it is.  _ I got some good information out of him.  _ “Listen, I have to go.” She bats her eyelashes. “Are you going to be watching next week?” 

“You bet, chica,” Lil’ Jesus says, a smile returning to his face. “And you stop by the Desperado any time, come see me, okay?” He gives her a friendly pat on the shoulder and swaggers away. 

On her way out the door, Carla gives Stuart Little a hearty thanks and catches Goris’ eye as she walks out the door and into the warm spring night. A few minutes later, he joins her, wiping lipstick off his cheek. 

“I thought she’d never let me go,” he confesses as Carla hails a taxi. “But she was most talkative.” 

“I got some good information too,” Carla says. “Let’s regroup with Len and see what we can piece together.”

As they step into the taxi, a loud roar sounds from above them, and Carla looks up to see a large helicopter, just like she had seen days before on her way to Reno. She stares up at it for a few seconds before Goris tugs her down into the taxi.

* * *

The next morning, they sit in a small cafe together and discuss their plan of action. As they talk and devour bagels and cups of tea and coffee, Lenny re-reads Richard Wright’s autopsy report. 

“I- I don’t know h-how to explain it, C-Carla,” he says, resting his chin in his hand, “but something d-doesn’t match up.” 

“Lil’ Jesus said that the Wrights don’t drink,” Carla muses. “Orville didn’t even have anything in his office.” 

Goris sips his tea, his hands almost completely encasing the small cup. “Many people have mentioned the possibility of poisoned Jet as being not only plausible, but not abnormal. Two of the suspects have mentioned Renesco, giving credibility to his impure reputation.” 

The city around them is starting to wake up, more customers shuffling sleepily into the cafe. The three of them scoot closer together, lowering their voices. 

“But if Richard  _ wasn’t  _ drinking, then why,” Carla sighs in frustration, “why would Doctor Henry say that he had been? Did he just make a mistake, or is he working for someone? As far as I know, he’s not affiliated with any of the Families. He’s a neutral party. Why would he be lying about this?” 

They think in silence for a moment before Lenny pipes up. 

“Maybe h-he’s being blackmailed or th-threatened,” he suggests, an obvious allusion to his own situation. Then Lenny freezes before starting to frantically flip back through the medical files. “Look,” he says, pointing to a section about the cause of death. 

“What? What about it?” Goris asks, pushing up his glasses and leaning closer to the paper. 

Carla skims the notes. “Respiratory failure. I don’t see what’s so special about that.” 

“Vikki and Juan a-also showed the same signs o-of respiratory failure from a f-fast-acting poison,” Lenny says, excited. “The results are e-exactly the same. Richard’s doesn’t m-match up with alcohol, there- there’s no trace of a-any other substances in his body.” 

“So you’re saying that Vikki, Juan, and Richard all died in the  _ exact  _ same way?” Carla confirms. “All three from some type of poison? We don’t know exactly how Vikki and Juan were given it, but we know that for Richard, it was probably in the Jet. We can have somebody check it out.” 

Goris frowns. “Still, isn’t a stretch to say that the two murders are connected? They didn’t even know each other. They weren’t even in the same city.” 

“Vikki saw something in Reno,” Carla quietly says. On the table, their drinks lay forgotten. “Maybe Richard saw something too.” 

“Maybe we’ve seen something we shouldn’t,” Goris whispers, his eyes distant, the morning sun glinting off his glasses. “Maybe whoever killed them is watching us. If we get too close to the truth, maybe we’ll-” 

A loud clatter of dishes makes all three of them jump. Across the cafe, a waitress is loudly scolded, and someone rushes to fetch a broom. 

“Don’t talk like that,” Carla says, more bravely than she feels. “Nothing bad is going to happen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did Doctor Henry lie about the cause of death? Did Renesco poison the Jet, or is someone else responsible? Did this chapter get too ominous at the end? 
> 
> Next chapter: Carla holds someone at gunpoint. She doesn't enjoy it.


	7. Carla discovers the truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for gunshot wounds and blood, but nothing graphic.

Carla starts investigating early, discussing her next moves with Goris and Lenny. Keith had given her several leads she hadn’t yet followed up on. Her first stop would be local drug dealer Jagged Jimmy J. 

He’s easy to find: a shifty-looking man hanging out downtown, a large scar running down the side of his face. 

“Hey, sister, you want to  _ fly _ ?” He asks when she approaches, alone with only Dogmeat for company. Goris had stayed behind to look into Doctor Henry’s identity and Lenny was still analyzing Richard Wright’s medical results. The shady doctor had twisted the results in such a way to confuse the cause of death, making it hard for Lenny to tell which parts were fabricated and which parts weren’t. 

Carla rolls her eyes at Jimmy. She doesn’t have time for this idiot to try to sell her drugs she’s not going to buy. Squaring her shoulders, she fixes Jimmy with a steely look. 

“I’m here for answers,” she says. He opens his mouth to interrupt, but she beats him to it. “Maybe you’ve heard of me. Beat three guys last night with hardly a scratch. And all three of them were  _ much  _ larger than you.” 

He gets her point. “What do you want to know? Jimmy’s your guy, sis.” 

She has two approaches here: ask about Richard, which probably will put him on the defensive, or ask about the empty container of Jet she had found in Richard’s room. She hadn’t had a chance to take it in to a lab, already missing the San Francisco police’s resources and support. She opts for the Jet, taking the empty canister from her purse. “What do you make of this?” 

He squints at it, his scar stretching as he frowns. “Just an empty Jet canister. Not one of mine, and I don’t think it’s one of Jules’ either, his are smaller. I-” he frowns even more deeply, bending forward and sniffing. “What the fuck was in this shit, there’s some kind of poison or something.” 

“That’s what I thought,” Carla says, glad for the confirmation. “Do you know who could have done something like that?” 

He scoffs. “Oh, easy answer there, girl. Everyone knows Renesco don’t give two shits about keeping his customers alive. I’d go over there and check him out. But watch that area: Salvatores’ boys’ll fry ya if you step out of line.” 

Carla takes the Jet container back with a nod of thanks. “You’ve been very helpful, Jimmy. Thanks.”

* * *

Before she returns to the hotel to regroup with her friends, Carla makes a quick stop somewhere else. 

The Reno suburb where Doctor Henry lived is quiet. But when Carla approaches the house, no curtain ruffles. When she knocks on the door, nobody answers. She knocks again. No answer. 

The house is dark. When she checks the mailbox, she finds days worth of uncollected mail. No car sits in the driveway. The grass, quick-growing in such a warm month, is long. Carla quickly gets in her car and drives away, giving the abandoned house one last glance over her shoulder. 

* * *

“Are you sure this is the right place, Carla?” Goris asks, hovering behind her. Carla, Lenny, and Goris stand in a shady part of town. Not that any part of Reno is  _ nice _ , but this block looks worse than most. 

A flickering neon sign above the door reads PHARMACY, though the R and C letters have burnt out. 

“Left after the abandoned fire station, right across the street from Joe’s laundromat,” Carla recites the directions that Jagged Jimmy had given her. 

Lenny looks over his shoulder at the garishly bright laundromat. “It just looks like a normal store.” 

Privately, Carla disagrees, though she doesn’t voice her observations out loud. Though the sign is in disrepair, the bars over the window seem sturdy, and she had spotted a covert back door as they had parked. Speaking of parking, there were a surprisingly large number of cars in the parking lot, more than would be expected in the middle of the day in a rough neighborhood. If the place did so much business, how did it look in such bad shape? Simple answer- to keep it from suspicion. It  _ looked  _ like your run-of-the-mill pharmacy, so why would anyone who wasn’t in the know want to shop there? 

“Okay, so here’s our story,” she says. “Goris, your birthday is up and we’re going to throw you an epic party. Except that Renesco would probably recognize us as not being usual customers, so we pretend like we’re newcomers to the drug scene. Real middle-class straight-laced folks looking for a fun time.”

“So why’d we come to Renesco instead of a local dealer?” Goris asks. Carla thinks for a second, but it’s Lenny who answers. 

“We’ll-we’ll say that Renesco h-has a reputation for keeping h-his stuff real- real clean. We got a tip from, uh, Jules.” 

Carla nods. “Right. But we’re not looking to spend much, just a little something to spice it up. Then I play the gossip card and see if he knows anything about Richard Wright. Any other questions?” 

The pharmacy is just as dilapidated on the inside as it was on the outside. Boxes are shoved in haphazard piles on shelves, trash shoved into corners. Carla tries not to wrinkle her nose at the smell. A few employees shuffle just out of sight. 

Lenny grabs her arm and nods at an area separated by a chain link wall. They walk through a door and come face-to-face with an older man. He wears a pair of glasses with one lens missing, the remaining one cracked. 

“Yes? What do you want?” He asks, somewhat rudely. 

“Um, excuse me,” Carla makes her voice quieter and meeker, like a middle-class woman would sound like in an intimidating and obviously dangerous establishment like this. “We were looking for a little something special for a party? Jules recommended someone named Renesco to us. Is that you?” 

Renesco nods, looking between the three of them. “Yeah, that’s me? If you talked to Jules, why didn’t you just buy from that snake? Why’d you trek all the way over here?” 

Goris puts a hand protectively on Carla’s shoulder. “He seemed a little shifty, like maybe he’d slip something in he shouldn’t. And after all of that mess with that kid, we didn’t want to take any chances. We heard you’re more reputable.” 

“Damn right,” Renesco viciously says. “That SOB likes to lace his shit with arsenic sometimes.” Carla loudly gasps in horror. “But I can sell you something untampered. You said you were buying for a little party? Here’s some tamer stuff that’ll still give you a strong kick.” He takes them to the empty back room of the store and pulls down some boxes with exotic-sounding labels. 

Carla decides to amp up her persona, nervously fidgeting with her purse. “But what about overdose? I heard about that kid who died, that sounds so  _ awful _ , I can’t even think about it,” she shivers, eyes wide, and clutches Lenny’s arm. “And what if it mixes wrong with booze and we take too much and-”

“Ma’am, calm the fuck down, nothing like that’s going to happen,” Renesco assures her. “The incident with the Wright kid was probably just a case of his Jet being laced with poison.” He pauses, lost in thought for a second, but quickly disguises it by rummaging through a box. But Carla is trained in observation, and she notices the slip.  _ He knows something.  _

She makes a split-second decision while Renesco’s head is down, giving Goris and Lenny significant glances. Then she swallows hard and puts her hand in her purse. 

“Is that what you did, Renesco? Did you give Richard poisoned Jet?” She drops her fake voice, her posture straightening.

“What? What the fuck are you talking about?” Renesco turns and sees the change in her demeanor. “What’s going on here?” 

“Richard Wright,” Carla repeats. “Did you poison his Jet? Besides Jimmy and Jules, you are the biggest supplier in the city. And both of them said they didn’t do it. So that means that you did.” 

Renesco flinches. “Whoa, lady, don’t go throwing out crazy shit like that! I never saw the kid, I never sold to him, I’ve never even talked to him! A whisper of that kind of talk reaches the Wrights, I’ll be dead before nightfall! Now get the  _ hell  _ out of my store!” He stands up.

Flanking Carla, Goris and Lenny tense. Her hand still in her purse, Carla is all too aware of the precipice she teeters on.  _ This  _ is the moment. This is where she chooses. She can still walk away. 

But she needs answers, and giving up isn’t her style. 

“Goris, lock the door,” she murmurs. “Len, block the other one.” Then she pulls out a pistol and aims it at Renesco’s head. 

“Whoa, what-” The soft click of the lock follows the louder sound of the pistol safety being turned off. 

“Stay quiet,” Goris warns him. Across the room, Lenny makes sure that the back door is bolted.  

Carla doesn’t like threatening people. It goes against everything she’s ever learned about justice and the law. But in a city like this, on a case like the one she’s in, she needs to play by their rules, not hers. “Three different people have told me that you sell bad shit, Renesco. Shit that gets people killed. And I saw how you looked when you mentioned poisoned Jet. You know something. Now talk.” 

“I swear, I never did anything to the kid!” Renesco stammers, “I never sold him anything-” 

“But did you poison Jet for somebody else that could have given it to him?” Carla asks. Renesco visibly hesitates, his eyes flickering to the side. “You did. Who asked you to do it?”

He winces. “I swear I didn’t know what they were going to use it for. But I had to do it, the Salvatores basically  _ own  _ me.  _ Why  _ they want something isn’t my business, I just do what they want and they keep me safe-”

The Salvatores. An option that Carla hadn’t seriously considered, if only because the Family seemed so elusive. They didn’t own a casino, they didn’t flaunt their wealth, they didn’t run around at epic parties demonstrating the vice-infested attitude of the city. But that didn’t mean that they weren’t dangerous.

“But why?” Goris asks. “Why did they want to kill Richard?” 

Renesco shrugs, his eyes still on Carla’s gun, which she has lowered to hang loosely at her side. “I don’t know. Guess the kid saw something he shouldn’t. They didn’t say anything, just gave me the poison and told me to lace the Jet.” 

That rings a bell for Carla.  _ Vikki saw something she shouldn’t have in Reno. Something that got her killed.  _ Carla suddenly remembers two objects she had seen in Richard’s room, two details that had seemed insignificant at the time: a pair of binoculars and a ham radio.  _ Maybe Richard saw something too. Something connected to the Salvatores.  _

Before she has a chance to further interrogate Renesco, she hears shouts from the main room. Voices calling for Renesco.  

“Oh, you’re in trouble now,” he says, “that’s Mason, the Salvatores’ right-hand man. He gets a hold of you, he’ll gut you like the fucking snake you are.” 

“Damnit,” Lenny mutters. He nervously looks between Carla and the door he’s standing next to.

Carla grabs Goris and runs for the back door. “Come on, come on, get to the car!” she whispers, stuffing the gun into her bag. Lenny throws open the back door and the three of them tumble out into the open air. 

A yell rises from the room behind them, and a bullet hits the crumbling concrete at their feet. The three of them run to Carla’s car and cram inside, none of them bothering to climb into the backseat. She starts the car with a roar, and speeds away. 

“Someone- someone’s following,” Lenny shouts to be heard over the rush of the wind. It was such a warm day, Carla had left the top of her car down. In the rearview mirror, a sleek sports car is on their tail. And it’s quickly gaining. 

“C-Carla, Carla,  _ Carla _ ,” Lenny frantically repeats her name, clinging to the handle of the passenger side door as she slams her foot down on the accelerator. Her car shoots forward down the abandoned street, the other car just seconds behind. 

But where to go? The Salvatores know this part of the city, they have memorized every back alley and shortcut. Carla will never lose them here. She makes a sharp left turn and heads for the downtown lights. 

“Duck!” Goris yells, his torso twisted to look backwards. He pulls Carla and Lenny down just as a bullet whizzes over their heads. She swerves and almost hits a pole, but quickly straightens the vehicle. 

“Gun. My purse. Goris.” She gasps, long hair flapping in the wind. Goris ducks and rummages through her purse, which is sliding around at their feet. Carla hardly slows down to skid to the right onto a crowded street, and both of her companions slide across the bench seat and slam into her shoulder. 

Finally, Goris grabs her pistol and turns in his seat to start firing at the other car. Carla weaves in between other vehicles, cutting in front of a bus and earning an angry yell. She ignores it all in favor of focusing on the road in front of her, hands white-knuckled around the steering wheel. 

The passenger side mirror shatters in a shower of glass. Lenny flinches and throws up his arms to protect his face. 

“Okay?” Carla yells, taking a split second to look over at him. 

Lenny nods, a few spots of blood on his arm. “Just a s-scratch, C-Carla. I’m fine.” She turns back to the road.

A red light in front of her. Dozens of pedestrians are crossing the street. Carla slams her hand on her horn and they scatter. She makes a sharp left and is faced with a realization: her hotel room is too close. The Salvatores’ car is still hot on her trail, and she’ll never lose them in time. 

She knows who killed Richard Wright. Goris and Lenny know too. And the three of them are the only people in the whole city who know what’s going on. And Carla’s not about to let the truth die with them. 

So Carla makes a few sharp squealing turns and starts heading for the east side of the city. 

Goris makes a small sound of triumph, and Carla hears the sharp pop of a tire. The car behind them slides, the tire-less front wheel skidding with a shower of sparks and a screech. 

“Amazing!” Lenny says, then he shrieks, “C-Carla, turn! Right!” 

She swerves and narrowly misses another sleek car. This one pulls up next to her and tries to sideswipe her. She grits her teeth. A bullet hits the side of the car and she ducks to avoid another one. Goris is shakily firing at their tires, but the other people have no such moral objections to murder. 

In front of them, at the end of the street, Carla sees a railroad crossing sign. She speeds up. The railroad tracks mark the edge of the Wright territory. Their mansion was right next to this crossing, she could see the gate from here. Just a little farther, and they would be safe.

Two very bad things happen next. 

First, Carla screams and jerks the wheel. Her left hand falls to her lap, blood pouring from a spot just below her elbow. She breathes through her nose and pushes through the pain, narrowly avoiding an oncoming bus. 

Second, a loud bell chimes. In front of them, a red flashing light starts to blink at the railroad crossing. A train was coming. 

Speed up or try to turn? Carla makes a decision. With the wind in her hair and the spicy tang of fresh blood, her mind couldn’t be clearer.

“Hold on!” She shouts, and slams the pedal to the floor of the car, leaning forward in her seat as if that would make the car faster. The car next to her hesitates, slowing for a second before accelerating to try and catch up. 

The train is approaching, the horn blaring a warning. 

“Carla…” Goris nervously says, one arm around her shoulders and the other around Lenny’s, the gun abandoned on the floor of the car. They approach the crossing. The other car is on their tail, but now a few feet behind. 

Their car crashes through the flimsy crossing barrier. The train horn is blaring in their ears, the lights blinding them and highlighting their silhouettes. 

Then the tires of their car land on the other side of the tracks. Just inches from the rear bumper, the train thunders by. But the sound of the train is not loud enough to mask the distinctive crunch of the other vehicle hitting the side of the train. Their own car skids to a halt.

The three of them stare back at the train for a few seconds, eyes wide in shock. Then, adrenaline fading and pain returning to the forefront, Carla lets go of the steering wheel and grabs her injured arm, whining between clenched teeth. 

“O-Oh my God,  _ Carla _ ,” Lenny is suddenly grabbing her and pulling her over Goris and into the middle. “Goris, y-you drive, C-Carla, let m-me see.” Suddenly dizzy, she slumps to the side and against his shoulder. Lenny rifles through the glove compartment and pulls out a first aid kit, dumping the contents on the floor. He helps her remove her jacket, and she’s left with a short-sleeved blouse that’s quickly becoming soaked with blood. 

“Are you okay?” Goris asks, keeping one eye on them as he pulls into the Wright mansion. The gate guard recognizes Carla and immediately lets them through, speaking into his walkie-talkie. 

“It w-went through, thank God, just-just a lot o-of blood,” Lenny says, swiping an antiseptic-soaked rag across the wound. Carla hisses, tears springing to her eyes. She’d only been shot one other time, and it hurt like  _ hell _ . Lenny hastily wraps a bandage around the wound and secures it. His own wounds from the glass shards aren’t bleeding heavily, so he settles for wrapping a rag around his arm. 

The three of them pile out of the car, Carla shakily standing and waving away her friends’ assistance. 

The front door opens and none other than Orville Wright himself exits. “What the hell is going on here?” He asks, taking in their condition. 

Carla straightens. “I’ve solved the case.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CAR CHASE CAR CHASE CAR CHASE, it's the scene I've been looking forward to since I started writing this! Also, shoutout to kourumi on Tumblr for chatting with me about it. I added the shattered mirror because of their suggestion. Fun fact: there's like a 5% chance that Carla's car has seatbelts, considering the times. Fun Fact #2: the railroad tracks do mark the edge of the Wright territory in canon. There's a whole quest involving the old railroad station. 
> 
> Next chapter: The End.


	8. Carla realizes that the case isn't over yet

“You’ve solved the case? You know who killed my son?” Orville Wright ushers the three of them inside and into his office. 

Carla all but collapses into the chair he offers. Her two friends stand behind her. “Yes. The Salvatores wanted him dead, so they hired Renesco to lace some Jet with a very fast-acting poison. But Renesco didn’t know who he was doing it for, he had no idea that it was for your son.” She cuts right to the chase. 

Orville looks surprised. “The Salvatores? Are you sure? Why- what did  _ Richard  _ do to piss off the Salvatores?” 

“I don’t know,” Carla admits. “But I have a hunch. He was an amateur ham radio operator, right? And he probably had a good vantage point from his bedroom that, using his binoculars, he saw something. Or heard something he shouldn’t have. Something that the Salvatores wanted to cover up.” 

Orville Wright starts pacing the small office. “That sounds right. Those bastards stay on the down low, but who knows what they’re really up to. I heard they’re even in cahoots with some nasty secret organization- just a rumor, but a troubling one.” He stops pacing. “Thank you for your assistance, Carla. I can’t imagine who we would have blamed if you hadn’t investigated and found the truth.” He hands her another large envelope filled with money and escorts her to the door. 

“Do you mind if I look in Richard’s room for a moment?” She asks. “There’s actually a related case I’m investigating. It’ll only be for a second.” Reluctantly, he agrees. 

Richard’s room is untouched since she last visited. This time, she heads right for the desk, unrolling the balls of paper next to the ham radio. The sheets of paper are filled with numbers, frequencies and channels and times. She folds the papers neatly and slips them into her bag. 

“What are you thinking, Carla?” Goris asks. 

She hums and takes the binoculars from the bookshelf. “Vikki and Juan’s case still isn’t closed. Maybe if I follow in Richard’s footsteps, discreetly, I can find out more information. I still feel like I’m missing something. What  _ exactly _ did he see or hear?” 

The window in Richard’s room faces north, offering a lovely view of the desert. Carla raises the binoculars to her face with her right hand, squinting as the evening sunset casts a glare over her vision. She focuses the lens and peers out at the desert, scanning slowly across stretches of sand and bushes. 

She sees a dark jeep stopped by the side of the road, two figures standing next to it. Carla frowns and focuses, the sharp line of military armor coming into view. But as she looks closer, it becomes clear that whoever this is, they are  _ not  _ the U.S. military. Their vehicle and equipment is missing all of the necessary markings, they don’t look official at all. And what are they doing in the middle of the desert?

One of them turns and seems to look right at her. 

Carla gasps and lowers the binoculars. She almost backs up into Lenny, who was peeking over her shoulder. 

“What?” he asks, concerned. 

She ignores him and looks at the spot again through the binoculars. There’s no one there, no sign of a car or any sign of life. 

“Nothing.” She drops the binoculars on the bed. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Marcus warmly greets them when they return to San Francisco after their adventure. They recount their tale to the police chief, who nods and promises to keep the Wright case off the books. After all, it’s not in his jurisdiction.

Finally, they discuss the Vikki and Juan case. 

“It’s related to the Salvatores, I just  _ know  _ it,” Carla insists. “I just can’t explain. I have no concrete evidence. Just my gut feeling.” 

Marcus thoughtfully rubs his chin. “I trust you, Carla. Listen, you’ve got plenty of time to investigate. Just be careful. Whatever those two stumbled upon, it was dangerous enough that even the Hubologists wanted to cover up their association with them. And my resources are always open to you, all you have to do is ask.” 

“Thanks. Actually, there is one small thing I need…”

* * *

* * *

* * *

Static fills Carla’s quiet apartment. All of the lights are off, save for the one in the bedroom. A series of clicks, then static again. 

In his sleep, Dogmeat softly snores, curled up at the foot of the bed. Next to him, Carla slouches in her desk chair. A ham radio set sits in front of her, papers and notepads scattered across every available space. Radio abbreviations, Richard Wright’s notes, pictures of the cases. 

Tap, tap, tap-tap. 

Under her finger is a Morse code key. Carla’s other hand holds a receiver to her ear. 

QRL-QRL. Is anybody there? 

No response. She moves on to another frequency. 

Richard had heard something. One night, sitting alone in his room in the sprawling Wright mansion, Richard had heard something on the radio. And it had gotten him killed. 

QRL-QRL. 

QRL. Someone responds. QRZ. Who is calling? 

Carla quickly responds with her callsign, then asks the identity of the caller in response. 

QRX. Standby. So Carla waits for half a minute before the other side calls again. QTH. What is your location? 

She pauses. They never identified themselves. She hasn’t used the radio much, but she knows that that breaks etiquette. CALIFORNIA, she replies. QTH. 

No response. In the darkness of the apartment, she looks over her shoulder. Dogmeat is still snoring, cars outside are still roaring by. After a minute, she keys QRU. Do you have anything more? 

An immediate response. QRV. Are you ready? She replies to the affirmative. 

WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE, CARLA. 

She jumps and looks over her shoulder, turning back to the radio with a pounding heart. But before she has time to reply, they call again. 

WE KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE BEEN DOING, CARLA. 

Her breathing seems too loud in the room. The shadows in the corner gather and start to loom over her.

In an anxious panic, she can’t remember if she locked her door, she can’t remember if she told anyone she was going to be doing this, she can’t remember if she ever gave Marcus her address, she can’t think-

WE WILL FIND YOU, CARLA. 

With shaking fingers, she calls back: WHO ARE YOU? 

YOU CANNOT HIDE FROM US, CARLA. THE ENCLAVE SEES ALL. 

Her hands are already fumbling for the gun in her bottom desk drawer. What if someone knows where she is  _ right now _ , Dogmeat is fast asleep, normally he would bark if someone was breaking into the apartment, but there’s no noise, nobody to hear if they find her right now-

One last message. 

SEE YOU SOON. 

Then the radio cuts off into static.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A double update! This fic was very easy to write, all of my ideas just flowed very naturally. That being said, the next part of the series (if I decide to continue, which I think I will?) won't be up until a couple of weeks from now (at least), because I just really wanted to finish this by the time school started. So just sit on that lovely cliffhanger for a while. 
> 
> Here's some info on ham radio: [here](https://www.thereadystore.com/survival-tips/10474/how-to-operate-a-ham-radio/) for your reading pleasure. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
